Sermons & Meditations

Mark 12:38-44
Presented November 8, 2009, by J.D. Kline
The Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost

We all have encountered them at one time or another—haven’t we?—those rather rare people who have a way of giving and serving without drawing attention to themselves. Sometimes you have to be “all eyes” even to notice them, for they seldom seek the limelight. In the aftermath of Janice’s accident and sudden death some years ago, one of the kindest and, in my estimation, most appropriate descriptions of her was shared by Jeanne Davies near the beginning of the memorial service. Some people, said Jeanne, come upon the scene proclaiming, “Here I am!” while others, like Janice, instead enter a room saying, “Oh, there you are.” It’s easy to take for granted persons who focus on others, persons who extend themselves with little thought of reward, until they are no longer with us.

This morning’s Gospel lesson tells the familiar story of the poor widow who gives her all, freely placing two thin copper coins—equal to a penny, we are told—in the Temple collection. It’s frequently considered the quintessential story for the stewardship season. Episcopal preacher Barbara Brown Taylor suggests that going through the stewardship season without the story of the widow’s mite “would be like Thanksgiving without turkey, Christmas without presents, Easter without eggs.” So even though our fall stewardship emphasis is technically at an end, when the text was listed in the lectionary as this Sunday’s Gospel lesson, I found myself drawn to it. And yet I want to focus on the text today, not primarily as a stewardship lesson, but more broadly, as a story that speaks of the challenging nature of discipleship. The story stands as the final scene Mark describes as occurring in the Temple courtyard, just prior to the events leading up to Jesus’ arrest and trial. It is a story that prepares us for those troubling events leading to Jesus’ death. Indeed, the widow’s selfless act of giving sets the stage for a messiah who willingly empties himself; it points us forward to the One who pours out his life for others, even as competing religious leaders want to dismiss Jesus as little more than an irritating presence—yet a presence, we soon discover, they are eager to eliminate at any cost.

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Mark 10:35-45
Presented October 18, 2009, by J.D. Kline
The Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost

Some years ago, while pastoring in my former congregation, I participated in a prayer retreat organized by a number of neighboring evangelical pastors. The goal was to deepen relationships across many of the dividing lines within the church of today—racial, theological, and denominational lines of division. It was a noble goal—this effort to chip away at the divisions among those who profess to be followers of Jesus. But as I pondered today’s Gospel lesson from Mark, chapter ten, I found myself recalling a song the retreat leaders invited us to sing with some frequency during that retreat, as we gathered in a circle for worship and sharing sessions. The song proclaimed that Jesus was a winner man, and kept repeating that single word: winner, winner, winner, winner, winner, winner; Jesus was a winner man.

I found myself troubled by that song while on retreat many years ago, and as it came to mind again while reflecting upon today’s Scripture text, I was troubled—and disturbed—all over again. Today’s lesson is one in which Jesus is urging us to express our partnership in the gospel by embracing a life of servanthood. “Whoever wishes to become great among you,” says Jesus, “must be your servant” (Mark 10:43). But the song, quite to the contrary, speaks not of servanthood, but of emerging victorious over others, coming out on top. Truth be told, the song seems far more descriptive of the American obsession with being number one, positioning ourselves above everyone else, than it is of the life and ministry of Jesus—a life and ministry that, from beginning to end, point us in a radically different direction than does our culture, so consumed with glamour and success, with victory and power over others. Indeed, Jesus proclaims a way of living that goes against the grain of much of what we have come to deem the natural order of things. Rather than blessing a life of coercive domination over others, Jesus calls us to the way of liberating love. Rather than top-down domination, Jesus invites us to a life of bottom-up service. Rather than the iron fist of vengeance, Jesus counsels a welcoming gesture of loving kindness, gentleness, forgiveness, and grace beyond measure.

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Mark 10:17-31
Presented October 11, 2009, by J.D. Kline
The Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Mitch Albom, most noted for his book Tuesdays with Morrie, has a new book, Have a Little Faith, in which he describes relationship with two faith leaders—his life-long rabbi, Albert Lewis, and an African-American pastor, Henry Covington. He includes a story from an early sermon of the rabbi’s—the story of a young girl who returned home from school, eager to show to her mother a drawing she had made in class. The little girl danced into the kitchen, where her mother was preparing dinner. “Mom, guess what?” she squealed, waving the drawing. Without looking up her mother questioned, “What?” “Guess what?” repeated the little girl, and again the mother, tending to the tasks at hand, asked, “What?” “Mom, you’re not listening.” “Sweetie, yes, I am,” the mother responded, but still not shifting her focus from the work she had been doing. “Mom,” answered her daughter, “you’re not listening with your eyes.”

Every time I encounter this morning’s Gospel lesson—the story of the one who approaches Jesus asking, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” I imagine Jesus listening to the man, not with ears alone, but with his eyes—and indeed, with his whole being. We all know them—don’t we?—those persons with the gift of really noticing us, actually looking into our eyes and grasping who we are. Jesus had that gift, and in this morning’s story, listens with his eyes to the one who comes seeking more than he can fully express.

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Mark 8:34-37; James 5:13-20
Presented September 27, 2009, by J.D. Kline
The Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost

Fred Craddock, frequent preacher at the annual Festival of Homiletics, shares the childhood memory of his father taking him out to the backyard on a summer evening, inviting him to lie on the grass and look up into the sky.

“Son, how far can you think?” Fred’s dad asked.

“What?” Fred answered.

“How far can you think?” his dad questioned again.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Just think as far as you can think up toward the stars.”

Fred screwed up his imagination, and then said, “I’m thinking…I’m thinking…I’m thinking.”

Said Fred’s dad again, “Think as far as you can think.”

“I’m thinking as far as I can think.”

“Well, drive down a stake out there now. In your mind, drive down a stake. Have you driven it down? That’s how far you can think.”

“Yes, sir,” responded Fred.

“Now what’s on the other side of your stake?”

“Well, there’s more sky.”

“Move your stake.”

The two spent the evening moving Fred’s stake, again and again. “It was a crazy thing to do,” said Fred, “but I will never thank my father enough for doing it.”

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Jeremiah 11:18-20; James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a
Presented September 20, 2009, by J.D. Kline
The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost

It’s a tough task, proclaiming an unwelcome message. Centuries ago, the prophet Jeremiah felt compelled to proclaim insistent words of judgment against the people of ancient Jerusalem who had lost sight of their calling from God to be a light to the nations. Those Hebrews of old, cried the prophet, had turned their backs on the call to be a peculiar people proclaiming a new way of living, to be a community of God’s faithful people modeling hope in a sea of despair, compassion in a world of injustice and oppression, gracious inclusion in a climate of exclusion, peace in a world of suspicion and fear, in a world ever seeking security through political intrigue and military might rather than trust in God. Indeed, on more than one occasion Jeremiah laments that there are competing voices in his day who “have treated the wounds of my people carelessly, saying, ‘Peace, peace,’ when there is no peace” (6:14; 8:11).

It was a message the people of Jeremiah’s day did not want to hear, and what’s more, it was a message the prophet frequently did not want to deliver. This morning’s lesson from Jeremiah, chapter 11, is one of a series of laments or complaints against God. On another occasion Jeremiah cries out to God, “O Lord, thou hast deceived me, and I was deceived; thou art stronger than I, and thou hast prevailed. I have become a laughingstock all the day; every one mocks me” (20:7 RSV). And in this morning’s text the prophet laments, “I was like a gentle lamb led to the slaughter,” so aware was Jeremiah of his opponents’ efforts to isolate him, seeking to render his voice totally silent. The verbs used in the lament are intense; his foes, asserts the prophet, intend to “destroy” him, to “cut him off,” to ensure that “his name will no longer be remembered” (11:19).

I’ve been reading a novel entitled The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry, the story of Roseanne McNulty, now nearing her hundredth year, reflecting back on her life, much of it lived in a mental hospital. “I am completely alone,” asserts Roseanne. “No one even knows I have a story. Next year, next week, tomorrow, I will no doubt be gone, and it will be a small size coffin they will need for me.” It’s that tragic line, No one even knows I have a story, that caught my attention. For is that not what Jeremiah’s opponents wanted to have happen to this troubling proclaimer of an alternative vision for life? They wanted Jeremiah silenced; even more, they hoped that his name—his very identity, his life story—would be eradicated.

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